Aftermath
by TakenHawkeye
Summary: Three weeks into the beginning of the 4077th, after Henry's first meatball OR session. Will review all who review me.


To his credit, it wasn't until his first meatball OR session had officially ended that Henry ran out to the bushes beside the door of the theater and began to throw up what once was lunch. As he heaved, his mind filled with the images of soldiers blown to bits, of blood staining his hands, of fighting for the life of a man who had hardly lived it. Tears threatened to fall, but he blinked them back, listening for the sharp sound of footsteps.

They soon arrived, just like he knew they would, without a word between them. As he finished up, a shaky hand wiping his mouth, a soft touch of a comforting hand found it's way to his shoulder.

"You okay, Henry?"

He turned to the voice, ashamed of what he had done, ashamed that he, a doctor, was out in the bushes being sick like any one of the orderlies.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Trapper nodded, an understanding glint in his eye. "Why don't you head over to your office? Fill out some paperwork or something."

Henry found himself being led away by the arm before he could open his mouth to protest.

"How about tonight we celebrate? Our tent, still drinks on the house." Hawkeye pulled him towards the doors leading to his office. "Our first of what is sure to be many surgery sessions, we could toast to the official beginning of the 4077th."

Henry made a noncommittal sound, pushing himself into the outer office.

Quietly, Trapper muttered, "We did good, Henry. Saved a few lives. Be proud." He clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, quickly changing direction to avoid bumping the currently empty Company Clerk's bunk.

Radar, in his usual fashion, appeared out of nowhere as the three doctors began to make their way into what had just yesterday officially become Henry's office. Clipboard in hand, he wasted no time getting straight to business.

"Colonel sir, there's a few forms I left on your desk that you need to sign, initial, and date, then I can send them off to I-Corps. Headquarters called while you and the other doctors were operating, I can get them back on the line in --"

Hawkeye held up a hand, halting the eager young boy. "Not right now, Radar. Henry's going to go and unwind, think you can hold down the fort for awhile?"

It was then Henry jerked his arm out of Hawkeye's grasp, stepping away from the others. "Pierce, I'm fine. Let Radar do his job, and I'll do mine. You two put in just as many hours as the rest of us, you're free to go, no need to watch over me."

"But --" They began to object, their certainty in knowing what was best for their commanding officer written blatantly across their face. He struggled to fight down the sudden annoyance building inside him.

"Go." Henry faltered, but went on, refusing to lose steam. "And that's an -- an order."

Hawkeye looked as if he were ready to protest further, but Trapper's gently restraining hand laying on his shoulder seemed to change his mind.

"Alright, alright, we're going."

Trapper paused, halfway out the door. "But we're coming back in two hours. High time we had a few drinks and laughs around this place."

Too weary to fight, Henry waved a hand, agreeing. As he watched the two young doctors leave, he managed to stumble into his office and behind his desk before the first tear began to roll down his cheek. Radar hesitated outside the door, clutching a stack of forms he had yet to give the exhausted Colonel. He watched as Henry fumbled to the nearby cabinet, struggling to open the first bottle he made contact with. The man didn't even bother to reach for a glass, taking a swig straight from the bottle as he sank even further into his chair.

"I'll come back later, sir."

Henry stared off, oblivious to the Corporal. Radar slowly turned away, glancing over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him.

Three weeks. Just three measly weeks ago he had been home, with his family, working in his private practice, not a worry to be had. And now he was in Korea, thousands of miles away from sanity, fighting to keep his mind and his stomach.

Cursing, Henry slammed the bottle back down onto his desk.

He was a doctor, dammit, a doctor! He'd done countless surgeries before without hardly batting an eye, and now, here in the middle of this goddamn war, where it matters most, he was cracking up. He curled a lip, disgusted with himself.

Reaching across his desk, he picked up his fishing hat, and roughly jammed it onto his head.

But the blood, dear god the blood. There was so much of it, pooling beneath his feet as he fought to sew up the holes in the young boy laying before him. He was hardly eighteen, couldn't be any more than that, and there he was, unconscious with his life in Henry's hands. He did belong there, none of them belonged there. 

Henry squeezed the bottle in his hand, taking another long drink.

He was in charge now, an entire hospital in his hands, and he couldn't even keep down his lunch. He was a doctor, he was supposed to be there, supposed to be the healer, the savior. What good was he out in the bushes, sick?

His vision of the office began to blur as tears threatened to fall.

Henry stood up, fighting the images swarming in his mind, swirling around, closing in and choking him. As he worked at closing the bottle, shaky hands and all, he cursed himself once more.

Seven hours in OR. Seven hours of blood and torn flesh, of Pierce and McIntyre's jokes overlapping Burns' whines.

He feared he'd never be able to close his eyes again without seeing the blood and hearing the rattling breath of death as they battled.

Henry sighed and violently shut the door to the liquor cabinet, listening to the echoes that bounced around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Radar's concerned face peering through the window. He motioned for him to come in, falling heavily into his chair.

Radar opened the door timidly.

"Radar?"

"Yes, sir?" Radar lifted his ever-ready pen, hovering it over his clipboard.

"Forget the notes. Just get me a damn aspirin, I'll be in my tent trying to forget the war." Henry moved to stand.

"Uh, gee, sir, uh --" Radar glanced around, avoiding his gaze. "I don't think you can."

Henry stopped, snapping his head up. "I can't?"

"Uh -- no." Radar finally tore his eyes from his shoes, staring at Henry. "Choppers are coming."

He fell back into the chair, too weary to scream like he suddenly urged to do. "So soon?"

"The fighting's picking up again, sir." Radar's words were soon drowned out by the sound of approaching choppers.

Henry dropped his head into his hands, fighting the urge to run out to the bushes again, while grasping around wildly for what little sanity he could find. After a moment he raised his head and muttered quietly, "Let's go."

"Yes, Colonel."

Beaten, silent, Henry pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the door, grateful for his empty stomach and the seven hours experience that gave him an idea of what to expect in the coming hours. Halfway to the compound he paused, glancing at the camp now under his command, and sighed. Already he could see the blood and hear the screams, and he was positive that he would from now on.

Henry forced his legs to walk on, fighting to harden himself against what was yet to come.


End file.
